


Roads

by Magi_Silverwolf



Series: Pings of the Heart [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Warehouse 13
Genre: Gen, Hacking, Linguistics Foreign & Domestic, Logistics & Semantics, Non-Biological Sentient Beings, Obsessive Behavior, Past Child Abuse, References to Related Canons, Spoilers for all seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 20:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11767653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magi_Silverwolf/pseuds/Magi_Silverwolf
Summary: Harry left—ran away—vamoosed. Artie didn’t understand the reasons, but they weren’t important while Harry was out there all alone and hurting. Artie hadn’t given thirty-five years of his life to the Warehouse to have it steal away the opportunity to raise another child. And once the brat was back where he belonged, he was so grounded; Artie would figure out how to make that stick later. Right now, he just had to find him.





	Roads

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.  
>  **Warnings:** This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.

**Song Recommendation(s):** “Way We Go Down” by Kaleo; “Hollow” by Breaking Benjamin; “Good Girls” by Elle King; “I Be U Be” by High Valley; “Start of Time” by Gabrielle Aplin

-= LP =-

Pings of the Heart

Part 03: Roads

-= LP =-

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door … You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to."

– Bilbo Baggins, _The Fellowship of the Ring_ by J.R.R. Tolkien

-= LP =-

 

Harry’s first act upon reaching his hideaway was to give into the grief eating at him. The burn of the tears helped as much as the cathartic purging of the tears themselves. He knew the words and definitions concerning pain. The libraries available at the Warehouse were very extensive and while he would never admit it while living with his relatives, Harry loved to read for more than simply something quiet and out of the way to do. After joining the Warehouse, reading meant gathering information to help Artie—to help keep him safe…to push off losing him like he now had. Harry never expected for it to hurt this much. He really didn’t. Even though his eyes hurt, that pain, hard and sharp as it was, had nothing on the pain in his heart. None of those fancy words could encompass that ache.

 

Desperate to feel something other than grief, Harry clawed at his necklace. Nothing would last as long as it was around his neck. His nails tore at the skin of his collar, making him tingle with increasing irritation. Frustrated, he let out a sob. Energy tumbled across his skin, as weak as it was wild. He had used so much more than he was used to trying to save Artie. It was all just so pointless in the end. Everything he had done was for _nothing_. Here he was, alone again. He let out a wail, unable to keep silent even a moment longer.

 

Exhaustion finally dragged him under darkness, giving him a short respite.

 

-= LP =-

 

“Artie, you need to rest—“

 

“That’s not going to happen,” Artie snapped at Leena as he started typing commands into his computer. He could _hear_ the looks being exchanged between the innkeeper and his agents. He could definitely feel the awkwardness of the two siblings who hovered by the door watching the Warehouse staff plot their arguments. If they were going to stick around, Artie was going to use them. He spun on his chair. “Claudia Donovan, you want to stay out of federal prison? Get your ass over here and get to work! The rest of you, be useful or be gone!”

 

“You think the kid set something up legit? That’s an awful lot of planning for a seven-year-old,” Claudia groused as she moved to the secondary terminal set up in the corner. It irritated him to see someone other than Harry there, but right now, a second person searching for his—the kid was worth more than maintaining the sanctity of his space.

 

“Nine,” Artie corrected automatically. He was good at finding whatever he wanted. He’d find Harry and bring the little monster home. Then he’d set Harry to do a complete flush and overhaul of the damn neutralizer pipes—oh, that boy would have so many chores that he would _never_ have the time or energy to run away again.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Harry’s nine,” Pete clarified as Artie kept working through what databases Harry had accessed. The Warehouse refused to respond to any of his attempts to narrow down the results. That was bad—very bad. He let out a string of curses. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Damn building is helping him,” Artie replied, already trying a backdoor. “Claudia—“

 

“On it, boss-man.”

 

“Artie—“

 

“I thought I was clear,” Artie interrupted before Leena could get any further than his name. “Either be useful or _leave_. Until Harry is home, that is our priority—outside of any artifacts causing major problems.”

 

“I’ll search his room,” Myka volunteered before disappearing through the door half-hidden by filing cabinets that led to the apartment given to the Custodian of the Warehouse. Artie waved a hand in her direction. He was vaguely aware of Pete talking to Leena and Joshua but the Warehouse started actively trying to redirect his searches to the dietary habits of penguins and anything else just wasn’t as important.

 

Really, _nothing_ was as important as finding Harry.

 

-= LP =-

 

Time had an odd way of passing. Harry was certain that he lost longer than he thought, especially at first when he didn’t do anything except basic necessities. He only vaguely remember talking to the program he had pilfered from Global Dynamics when he set up the safe house before fading back into the oblivion of sleep. While he had stocked his hideout with a variety of nonperishable foods, Harry wasn’t hungry enough to eat any of it for what seemed like the longest time. He would drink water from his tap and go to the bathroom, but mostly he just slept. Asleep, he couldn’t remember what he had lost and if he couldn’t remember, it didn’t hurt. Eventually, the gnawing of his stomach forced him to start eating the food he had stashed.

 

Food gave him the energy to stay awake longer, but staying awake didn’t solve anything. He couldn’t stay here forever—he knew that eventually, someone would check the Warehouse databases and find the trail he had buried or the system running the house would need to update which would likely alert its creator of another copy being active. Harry just couldn’t summon the energy to do more than pack a few provisions in his messenger bag and try to find a way of existing that didn’t constantly remind him that Artie was gone.

 

The attack came when Harry least expected it. In his mind, he always thought that when someone came for him, they would do so at night. It was full day when Harry felt the prickle of danger settle over him. A glance out the window showed a single man walking up the front walk without any worry about being seen. That thought worried Harry—if the man had no fear of being seen, that meant he didn’t fear any reprisal from anyone. What notched that worry up to fear was the way the man was dressed.

 

He wore a robe.

 

Harry tried to pop away but he bounced against some kind of shield. The fear turned to panic. This was _bad, bad, bad_. He had thought they would never be able to find him again. He had thought that in America he only had to worry about alphas or Warehouse staff. He couldn’t go back to the Dursleys—Artie wouldn’t want that, not when he had fought so hard for Mrs. Frederic to take him from them and then had gotten him out of England. He couldn’t handle going back, not after having Artie for so long. This was _bad, bad, bad, bad_.

 

The man didn’t bother with knocking—and he must have had something that let him unlock doors with any keys. Of course he did; the robe-wearers had similar abilities to himself and Harry could make locks pointless with less effort than it took to pop places. The only obstacle would have been if the lock was electronic. The energy convergence would have shorted out the lock.

 

Harry backed himself into a nook between the couch and the wall, thinking hard about being invisible and unimportant. He felt the AI that controlled the household security shifting its attention around like the Warehouse always did when he got upset. It distracted him only slightly as the man entered the room. The invader sneered down his hooked nose at the furnishings of the small house before striding back into the hall. Just as Harry contemplated whether he would be able to grab his messenger bag from the bedroom, his invader stormed back into the room.

 

“Potter, I know that you are here,” the man threatened. His black eyes glared around the space. “You might as well come out from wherever it is you’re hiding. This little act of yours has gone on quite long enough.” Harry shivered as the man’s scowl shifted into a smirk. ‘ _Bad, bad, bad, bad.’_ “Very well. You’ve forced my hand, Potter. Be the consequences on your head. _Finite._ ”

 

From there, things went from merely bad to worse quickly.

 

-= LP =-

 

“Artie, _please_!” Leena begged. Artie had long since lost count of how many times she had done so in the last two weeks. She would nag him about sleeping or eating or bathing or doing anything other than searching for Harry. It wasn’t as if he had only been doing that—just _mostly_ only that. There was a whole list of things he had accomplished to make up for still searching for Harry. Leena apparently also missed the number of times that Pete had left bowls of things like chicken chunks, cheese, and grapes or shoved some weird concoction similar to a milkshake at him or how Myka and Claudia would tag-team him out of the Hub every couple of days. “Please, Artie, you need to relax! Your aura—“

 

“I will _relax_ when Harry is back where he’s supposed to be,” Artie snapped. He slammed his hands down on his desk. He fought the urge to shove the mountains of paperwork to the floor. No matter how much it would help vent his frustration, he would have to clean up the mess afterwards, which would take time away from attempting to track someone who clearly did not want to be found and was being aided by the very apparatus being used to do the searching. Leena’s attempts at interfering with that were just one more frustrating thing, and more frustrating than wading through research on the flora and fauna of Antarctica. If he read one more factoid about penguins, he was going to murder someone.

 

He couldn’t arrange for the innkeeper to go to CERN like he had for Joshua who was probably settling back into his research which had been derailed when he had suddenly become saddled with a seven-year-old. Artie could sympathize the distraction of suddenly having a kid underfoot. Claudia was probably more of a handful than Harry. Harry’s only _misbehavior_ wasn’t really his. Things just had a habit of going into the weird range around him—artifacts reacting unpredictably or things turning into artifacts unexpectedly. Who knew what was going on with the kid? He could be anywhere—he could be starving or cold. Harry hated being cold and it had taken so many months for Harry to stop looking like a skeleton when he first arrived. Or even worse: Harry could have found  an artifact that reacted with his distress and fear. He could be _hurt_ and would they even know about it in time to help? Or he could be suffering an even worse fate than death. _His_ aura looked like shit? Well, that’s just too bad. Harry was more important.

 

The ping system was also malfunctioning or at least it looked that way to Artie. A series of pings had been zigzagging its way across the country, hitting the cities that were known for heavy artifact presences. If the random notifications from the Warehouse weren’t worrisome enough, the major tabloids all had articles talking about people in medieval-style robes appearing out of nowhere in random cities. The most prominent recurring figure was a man in black robes with a large, hooked nose who seemed to be particularly violent. The day before yesterday he had engaged a group of alphas in Chicago and had nearly leveled a neighborhood before disappearing again. The disappearing act was not nearly as quiet as what Mrs. Frederic and Harry could do, but it was disconcerting that there were others out there that could perform that trick at all. At least Rheticus had needed an artifact!

 

“Artie—“

 

The lights in the room blinked off momentarily while the two computers remained unaffected. Whatever Leena had been about to say dropped on the priority list. Power outages were _bad_ times at the Warehouse. There was clanging coming from the metal steps leading from the Overlook to the Warehouse floor. Artie was already running a systems check when Claudia barged into the room. The power dimmed again before she could reach the secondary computer terminal. Artie glanced over to the fuse box, not really thinking anything of it despite Claudia’s taunt when she had hacked the system. Then he couldn’t look away from the repeated word which echoed his thoughts. His stomach dropped when the repetitions began to scroll upwards as more of them replaced the ones already there.

 

“Artie? Is that…” Leena whispered. Artie carefully moved around his desk to the panel to examine it more closely. Many of the lights were no longer lit up despite the connected fuse still being solid, forming the letters. Just as Harry rarely instigated the trouble that surrounded him was an inverse of Claudia’s active attitude, the warning was inversed from Claudia’s taunt, unlit against a fully lit background. Claudia’s lightning-paced typing was the only sound as Artie raised one hand as if to touch the repeated word now displayed.

 

“Finally!” Claudia declared before snatching a pen and notepad. “My program has finished backtracking the little monster. Kid wasn’t terrible smart. He’s still in Univille—you know what? Delete what I said. That’s totally smart. No way we’d look there, and it’s still close enough that he’d be able to connect to the Warehouse with that funky synergy he has. What the hell is Smart House?”

 

“It’s a Global Dynamics program for artificial intelligence,” Artie answered automatically, most of his focus on the dull letters before him. His mind was already racing through possible scenarios that included the autonomous AI and Harry’s involuntary effect on things in his immediate surroundings while under duress. “It was developed by Dr. Douglas Fargo a few years ago and has seen successful prototypal implantation in a residence in Eureka, Oregon where GD is headquartered. It’s not approved for general usage due to certain _bugs_ and like many inventions from those nuts, is flagged for potential artifact creation.”

 

“Harry downloaded a copy—should we be worried? What am I saying? A potential artifact unsupervised around Harry? I’ve heard some of the stories— _definitely_ something to worry about.” The lights blinked again and Claudia groaned in frustration. “That can’t be my app. It’s only supposed to do that when it found something and nothing is—OMG! Boss-man, traffic cam in Univille caught Mr. Dark-and-Dangerous from the Chicago incident exiting an alley a block away from Harry’s hidey hole.”

 

“Where’s the Farnsworth? Pete and Myka are at the B&B. Harry needs help _now_.”

 

Finally, Claudia spun in her chair to look at what held Artie’s attention. The repeating pattern of the word _bad_ was horrifying in its implications. Whether it was from the downloaded program or from Harry’s connection to the Warehouse, it meant the same thing, especially with the unlocking of Harry’s location from the Warehouse’s cortex. Claudia dove for the Hub’s Farnsworth while Artie took off towards his bag.

 

Then the power died completely.

 

-= LP =-

 

The front door to the little house was standing open when Pete and Myka arrived while one of the front-facing bay windows had been destroyed—blown outward recently judging by the debris that littered the tidy lawn. Myka didn’t like the feel of this arrival any more than she had the arrival two weeks ago to find the Warehouse door in the same condition. It echoed the feeling of _too late_ that had haunted her since Sam’s death in Denver. She was sick of being too late.

 

A glance at Pete gave her no insight into how he was feeling. For the last three weeks Pete had been _different_ from the joker he had been since their assignment to the Warehouse. Myka knew intellectually that Pete had been a Marine before joining the Secret Service, but normally, Pete acted so much like an overgrown child that she forgot that. Since Harry had done his runner and Artie started his obsessive search, Pete had taken charge of things far more completely than she had ever seen him. Pete was the only one who could get Artie to eat or drink—and Myka couldn’t figure out why that worked because all he did was put bowls of food on Artie’s desk or press protein shakes into his hand. That didn’t work when Leena tried and Myka never dared after the first few days because her presence seemed to intensify Artie’s agitation. Claudia spent most of her time retracing Harry’s interactions with artifacts and the Warehouse, leaving Pete to keep the Warehouse’s directive running while the senior agent focused single-mindedly on his missing ward. Myka wasn’t the type to take orders—which had caused all kinds of issues between Pete and her on missions—but things being how they were currently, it was a lot easier to just let Pete lead. So far, it had all worked out—despite all her issues with him, Pete did know his logistics. At this moment, there was a stoniness to his face that worried her, a grimness. Maybe she wasn’t the only one sick of being _too late_.

 

They went in with their guns drawn again. Leena didn’t have much intel for them on what to expect. Myka would have preferred to question Artie or Claudia directly, but apparently the power grid for the Warehouse went down right as a message came through about Harry’s status and Claudia’s hunt uncovered the address. It seemed like every artifact in the building was reacting—which considering the unexpected proximity of Harry to the Warehouse, and the suspected distress, wasn’t really surprising. Part of the safety brief upon their reassignment had included the information that artifacts of all sorts were easily triggered by Harry’s presence and emotional state. The boy was artifact-nip and the reactions were just as varied as cats to catnip.

 

The front room looked like an explosion had occurred—no. Her eyes traced the multiple damage patterns. _Explosions_. From some type of ray or beam—and at least two different sources and three kinds, judging by the differences in the patterns. They had fought— _viciously_. In addition to the explosions, there were the occasional gouge in things like a really sharp whip had been used. She followed the trail of violence through the room to what appeared to be a study and then to a hallway leading to a bedroom, which is where they found a person, just not the one they were hoping to find.

 

The woman stared at them with an older version of Harry’s emerald eyes, focusing solely on Myka instead of Pete after her initial glance. The eye color was at odds with the dark golden brown of her skin and the odd purplish black of her hair. That particular shade of purple nagged at Myka like she should recognize it. The woman wore a loose chiton which was that grayish-pink color people typically called _rose_. A simple pattern of white apple blossoms amid sage-colored ivy danced across every edge on the tunic-like dress. Each blossom had a rich pinkish-red center. Myka stared back at her down the sight of her Browning, barely noting that the woman didn’t seem to blink like a normal person.

 

By her side, Pete lowered his weapon before holstering it. Carefully, he moved forward, his hands outstretched to his sides in reassuring surrender. The woman flickered like an interrupted television signal before re-solidifying. She then blinked for the first time, her eyes briefly turning the blue that terrified computer owners everywhere. Recognizing that whatever this entity was, bullets most likely wouldn’t matter, Myka followed her partner’s example in holstering her weapon.

 

“Hey, there, we don’t mean you any harm. We’re looking for someone. Do you know what happened here?” Pete questioned gently. He slid around the edge of room to pick up something from the foot of the bed. Myka’s mouth went dry at the sight of Harry’s messenger bag. Pete looked through it briefly before dropping it on the bed with a frown.

 

“Authorization code, please,” the image replied flatly. The woman stared at Pete in expectation. Pete looked helplessly at Myka, all the confidence he had been using to keep things running smoothly the last few weeks seeming to fall away with Harry’s abandoned bag. As the seconds ticked by, the woman’s frown grew.

 

“We don’t actually have a code,” Myka said and the woman shifted her attention from following Pete with her eyes to staring at Myka again. Myka swallowed. “We’re friends of Harry. That’s who we’re looking for. Do you know Harry?”

 

“Harry James Potter, born July 31, 2000,” the woman replied. The flatness grew fainter as she warmed to her topic. “Last known guardian: Arthur Michael Nielsen, born Artyom Malkiel Weisfelt on July 2, 1948.” The woman tilted her head as she continued to stare at Myka. The intense focus was disconcerting but at least the woman wasn’t frowning anymore. When she continued, her tone was just barely off of a normal tone. “You are Myka Ophelia Bering, born September 29, 1978. Currently an artifact retrieval agent specializing in semantics and puzzles, formerly of the Secret Service of the United States of America. _He_ is Peter Conrad Lattimer, born June 6, 1980. Currently an artifact retrieval agent specializing in logistics and predictive analysis, formerly Secret Service of the United States of America and First Sergeant of the US Marine Corps. Paragenetic ability: precognition, gamma level. My Harry has you both classified as Threat Level Yellow.”

 

“We don’t want to hurt Harry,” Myka hurried to mention, taking a step forward with her hands outstretched. Pushing aside the tension at the idea of classified information being accessible by unknown entities was not an easy task but it was a necessary one. The woman flickered again, before rematerializing further away from both of them. The bed now separated them, an oddly defensive move for a nonphysical entity. It reminded her of how skittish Harry had been in those last few minutes before he had left. “We just want to bring him home. We want him safe. Do you know where he is?”

 

“Authorization code required.” The tone was more demanding this time, despite still falling slightly flat.

 

“How about a different tactic?” Pete tried as he backed away a few steps from the bed now serving as protective barrier. “What’s _your_ name?”

 

“I do not currently have a designation of my own.” The woman tilted her head again, examining Pete with that unblinking stare. “I have never had the ability to manifest in this way, so no one has ever given me one since my Aléxandros died.” She then stared at the wall beyond Pete. Her eyes turned that deep blue again while orange symbols flashed too quickly for Myka to follow. A moment later, she refocused on her audience with eyes returned to Harry’s shade of green. “You may call me _Melora_. Your authorization code, please.”

 

“Melora, we don’t have an authorization code.”

 

“I do not understand,” Melora countered. She leveled her gaze at them and blinked slowly at them. Myka barely held back returning it, something that Pete apparently did not as Melora immediately focused completely upon the other agent. “Authorization code accepted. The information provided does not compute. Current status of Warehouse agents does not reflect the current users of my Cortex. Who is my Custodian?”

 

Myka exchanged a look with Pete before reaching for the Farnsworth. This was definitely an Artie level problem. He was probably better equipped to get information from what Myka was half-certain was an avatar of the Warehouse—which meant that Harry had somehow created an artifact of his own before going missing _again_.

 

-= LP =-

 

“I do not understand,” Melora declared after Myka announced that Artie was on his way with Mrs. Frederic. Pete hadn’t stopped watching her since he had entered the room and now she was watching him right back instead of focusing of Myka. The not-blinking thing was seriously creepy, but considering that no matter how life-like Melora seemed, she was still just a hologram, he guessed it made sense. Right now, she looked so much like Harry in her confusion that his heart ached. “According to File Update on September 19, 2009 by Harry James Potter, Custodian Arthur Michael Nielsen was lost September 18 in an attempt to retrieve a Rheticus Compass alongside potential Caretaker Claudia Anne Donovan. This incident raised the potentiality of conscription of Harry James Potter into an alpha program from 56% to 92% and the potentiality of relocation to foster system from 15% to 67%, necessitating his preventative actions. Information does not compute with status update provided by Agent Myka Ophelia Bering. Clarification required.”

 

“Well, Melora, it’s like this: Artie wasn’t lost,” Pete said, receiving a blink in return. Worry grew on the avatar’s face as he continued. “Artie showed back up with both Donovans not five minutes after Harry took off. We’ve been looking for him ever since.”

 

“Confirmation required.”

 

“I’ll confirm it,” Artie announced as he marched into the room with Mrs. Frederic behind him. The slightly rotund man stopped in front of the flickering purple-haired woman and spread his arms wide. “Go ahead and scan me for signs of artifact use. I am Arthur Nielsen and I am very much alive and in this dimension.”

 

“Confirmed. You are Arthur Michael Nielsen, born Artyom Malkiel Weisfelt on July 2, 1948. Formerly freelance artifact and information retrieval specialist before conscription to the Warehouse in 1974 as artifact retrieval agent; Custodian from 1992 to 2009 when lost in retrieval of a Rheticus Compass. Official status listed as Missing in Action on September 19, 2009 by Harry James Potter. Status update necessary to retract status update of Custodian. Authorization code required.” Before anyone could question the spill of information, Melora turned towards Mrs. Frederic. “Irene Frederic born Spring 1867. Caretaker in lieu of Jolene Frederic since 1914. My Harry has you listed as Threat Level Orange.”

 

“I assure you that I would never allow Harry to conscripted into anything,” Mrs. Frederic replied, looking as scarily stoic as always, “nor would I allow him to be placed into foster care or protective care that would leave him vulnerable to such conscription. Right now, though, we need to find him, especially if he’s hurt. Agent Bering, how long has it been since you and Agent Lattimer were sent here?”

 

“Forty-six minutes,” Myka dutifully supplied without missing a beat. Even knowing that it was an extension of her freaky attention to details thing, Pete had the inkling that he would never _not_ find her perfect sense of time as unnerving as it was slightly hot. Was it possible to distract her even? The possibility was interesting even if he was fairly certain that Myka would hit him if he ever voiced the thought. “We arrived twelve minutes later and the only…only Melora was here.”

 

“Melora, we received a message that makes us think that Harry is in danger,” Mrs. Frederic continued. “We need you to tell us what happened here and where Harry currently is.”

 

“Authorization code, please,” Melora replied, sounding vaguely smug at thwarting them. Myka made that half-growl, half-grunt noise she always makes when Pete’s reaching the end of her patience. It was just as cute as when he inspired it, too, but Melora probably didn’t agree with him if the uncertain way she was examining his partner meant anything. Mrs. Frederic appeared just as confused. Pete didn’t even know what he had done earlier that got the hologram to tell him anything—all he had done was blink back at her. Artie heaved a deep sigh.

 

“Melora, look at me,” Artie commanded. The holographic woman obeyed. After a moment, she gave another slow blink before giving Artie a grin that was blatantly _Harry_ at his most carefree. Pete’s mouth had a sour taste in it, kind of like waking up the morning after a bender that included tequila.

 

“Authorization code accepted. Status update complete. It is good to see you, Custodian.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Myka interjected. “All you did was blink at her. How is that an authorization code?”

 

“I think I get it,” Pete said. He couldn’t help but squirm under the pointed gazes of two of the scariest women he had ever met outside of his mother and his ex-wife. Artie waved a hand impatiently for him to finish the explanation. “It’s a habit of Harry’s—he blinks at people and he’d get really happy when you return it. It’s what I did to get him to accept the scones. I don’t know why it’s important to him, but it must be, right? And since Melora was probably created by Harry and artifacts take on traits of their creators…”

 

“Cat-blinks,” Artie commented as he rubbed his chest absently. An insistent buzzing had the older agent frantically searching his pockets. The meaning of Harry using cat-blinks to determine trust levels hit Pete like a hammer to the head. Even as touching as it was, the idea made the kid’s absence hurt worse than ever. Artie finally pulled out his Farnsworth. “Claudia, what is going on? Has the Warehouse settled down any since we’ve got here?”

 

“Yeah, boss-man, but there’s still random surges in places with terrifying names—But that’s not why I’m calling. There was some major pingage going on in the city of brotherly love about the time of our blackout. I’m talkin’ artifacts popping up all _over_ the place, but the intensity was centered on Temple University. The surge lasted for about fifteen minutes before trailing off—again, ending with pings on the campus itself. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m smelling fudge.”

 

“Yeah, chocolatey goodness there,” Pete commented, “and the time is just as suspicious. Do you think it was an orchestrated attack on the Warehouse? Or something related to the attack on Harry?”

 

“I think it’s Harry-related,” Claudia announced over the sound of her typing. “It’s all grainy and gray, but a security feed shows the kid popping into existence next to the music hall at the nearly-exact timestamp as the outage. Does Har-bear have a problem with seizures?”

 

“The robe-wearer made my Harry shake,” Melora interrupted. Pete snapped his gaze to her. The avatar’s veneer of emotionless impassivity had finally been broken and she was wringing her hands. “He was in so much pain—I had to send him somewhere safe.”

 

“And you thought _there_ was safe?” Artie asked incredulously. “I’ve been searching for him for two weeks and you can’t be bothered to send him _home_ —oh, no, you just had to send him _there_.”

 

“What’s at Temple University?” Pete asked even as Myka corrected Artie’s time. Artie blinked at her in confusion. The mixup confirmed what Pete had suspected about the senior agent’s awareness while he had fought with the Warehouse systems for any scrap of information on Harry’s potential whereabouts. Pete clicked his tongue, drawing Artie’s attention away from growing panic that was evident on the older man’s face. As further distraction, he repeated his question. “Artie, what’s at Temple University?”

 

“I can answer that,” Claudia chirped from the Farnsworth. “Professor Isadore Weisfelt teaches piano in the music hall—incidentally, in the very room whose window our missing brat appeared under. The good professor looks eerily similar to our resident creaker who has the listed alias of Arthur Weisfelt among a slew of others because it seems that he spent years being a naughty boy. Now, I know we’ve been a bit busy, but has anyone else heard Artie mention his father—who’s got to be absolutely ancient because Artie is such a relic himself?”

 

“We don’t have time for this,” Artie protested. Myka looked like she was going to protest—Pete knew that incomplete intel had to bug her on multiple levels—but Artie was already rushing onward. “We need to retrieve Harry before he runs again or gets found by this ‘robe-wearer’ who is apparently hunting him. You sent him there.” Artie jabbed an accusing finger at Melora. “So, bring him back. _Now_.”

 

“I cannot,” Melora replied, emotion beginning to leak into her voice. “I used his own abilities to send him away using my power. I cannot access those without him or an equitable artifact, not even for my Custodian.”

 

“Hey, Claud?” Pete asked, cutting off what looked like it would have been a very angry rant from Artie. “We still have the Rheticus Compass in inventory, right?”

 

“Like I would let it disappear after all the trouble it caused,” Claudia quipped.

 

Pete looked between Artie and Melora. The latter was bouncing in place with her fingers interwoven under her chin. Pete couldn’t help smiling at the similarity to Harry whenever Leena had to make a trip to the Spiral with a new artifact to sort. Artie pushed his glasses up into his hair before pressing both his palms into his eyes. He then made a noise that ripped out whatever bit of hope that had seeded in Pete’s heart. The vibe hit with the force of a speeding truck, leaving him gasping.

 

“That’s…not good,” Myka announced carefully. Her eyes moved around the room, evaluating everything as always. Pete’s stomach clenched threateningly. Artie made his wounded sound again. Mrs. Fredric looked like she was carved from marble, nowhere near the tears she had shed once for Harry. The Farnsworth released a crackle of static before Claudia’s voice rose tinnily from it.

 

“I guess I can rig up a more complete version of what works with it,” Claudia offered with uncharacteristic hesitance, “but the kid said—I mean, would that be safe? Really wouldn’t want to trap anyone in another interdimensional pocket considering how that made the brat do his runner in the first place.”

 

“No,” Artie interrupted, choking on the words, “you can’t. The Stockholm Treaty—“

 

“The what-now?”

 

“They’d take the Warehouse.” Mrs. Frederic waited until all eyes were on her before continuing. “It was the guarantee that the Regents put up as collateral for their compliance. The Warehouse crosses international borders and had the greatest opportunity to defy the Treaty; they had to offer something worth the same value.”

 

“I do not understand,” Melora stated, all her previous enthusiasm bleeding away as confusion took over. Tension rippled the muscles of Pete’s shoulders. Whatever was coming was _bad_ and would be happening in the next few moments. “How can the Regents promise something that is not _theirs_?”

 

Oh, yeah—definitely _bad_.

 

-= LP =-

 

Harry had originally just thought that the man meant to return him to England and the Dursleys, but towards the end of their short battle, it had become clear that he just wanted Harry _dead_. Judging by what it did to the furniture and the walls, that purple energy whip would have sliced Harry to chunks if it hadn’t been for his necklace. Instead it just made Harry wish he had been killed. It had hurt a lot more than Uncle Vernon’s punishments or even Aunt Petunia’s experiments ever had. Whatever it was paled in comparison to whatever the man’s last spell had been. It had felt like millions of tiny flames licking at all his nerve endings, like it would consume him and keep him alive for centuries just to feast upon him.

 

In between the realization of the pain and drawing the breath to scream, Harry had felt something like flames but thick like mud move within him. Next he knew he was simply _away_ and the feel of the Warehouse was only the vaguest whisper in the back of his head. He knew that he had gone further than he normally did on his own, and he had the sense of the direction he was from the Warehouse. He had officially left the only home he had known. All he wanted to do was break down again, but it would have to be _later_ when he had shelter or safety.

 

It had taken a long while for the shaking of his limbs slowed enough for him to manipulate them again. Until then, he laid beneath an open window and listened as someone played a piano like the one back at the Warehouse. Harry had almost cried as he remembered how Artie had corrected his fingering—so many freaking times there at the beginning—or how he would seek out Artie after a nightmare and find him at the piano, playing his sorrow. Artie wouldn’t be playing any more sad songs, would he? That’s a good thing, right?

 

Most of all, he just wanted it all to _stop_. Everything was just too much. He hadn’t realized it, but he had gotten used to warmth and comfort and eating regularly. He wanted to go _home_ —to Leena and the B&B, yes, but also the Warehouse and _Artie_. Harry curled tighter into a ball. He let himself drift in the music, a comforting reminder of the home he had lost.

 

The music halted abruptly in a tangled chord of closely placed keys. Half asleep now, Harry barely twitched at the discordant sound. A voice—both familiar and not—grumbled a complaint at being interrupted. Then a snort-like sound—like Artie’s annoyed and disbelieving sound of dismissal—cut through a quieter speaker’s voice.

 

“What do you know?” said the not-unfamiliar voice just a few feet above him. “There is a boy laying in the bushes like a putz. You there!” Harry struggled away from the edge of sleep enough to uncurl to look at the man now halfway out the window. He immediately scrubbed at his eyes, certain that his wishes were affecting what he was seeing. The man made an annoyed snort—and Harry had no problem identifying it as Artie’s indicator of impatience. “Yes, _you_. Where is your mother? Or father? The shmendrik who is supposed to be in charge of you and has let you wander off to sleep in bushes?”

 

“Kaput,” Harry replied, both taking a risk that the man would understand and because the word fit best the fate of Artie. He still couldn’t stop staring at the man’s face, drinking in the similarities to what Artie probably would have looked like some day if he had survived. It was his understanding of Artie’s expressions that allowed him to see how the man was both happy and saddened at the status given.

 

“He speaks! Come inside, and we’ll find something to do with you. Can’t very well leave you in the bushes to join them, can we?.”

 

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was pathetic. Maybe it was just because the man reminded Harry so much of Artie. In the end, all that mattered was that Harry obeyed.

 

-= LP =-

 

“All I’m saying is she has a freakin’ point,” Claudia groused into the Farnsworth. She had left it propped up on the stand Artie kept near his primary screen as she worked through layers of firewalls and encryptions. If she was going to bend the rules instead of outright breaking them, she first needed the exact wording of the rules. Fortunately, the argument between everyone kept anyone from staring too closely at the tiny and ridiculously low-res screen in the communicator. Thus she could hack in relative peace so long as she threw out the occasional comment to stir the pot.

 

God, old people were easy to manipulate. Well, that’s unfair. Artie definitely had some mad skills. He wasn’t as good as her, of course, but then really, who was? The kid was good, though. Not all of the delay in tracking his path had been the system actively resisting her worm. Harry had an understated flair that made his coding into fecking art and that’s not an euphemism either. Claudia only vaguely recognized the patterns he was using but she was fairly certain one of the languages had color hex-dex as its base. It was all organic and beautiful and so flippin’ complicated that she couldn’t make heads or tails of it and she was _fucking_ _great_ at what she does. Eventually, she had to create a translation matrix to give her worm guidance. She could have manually done it—you know, given enough time because she’s awesome like that—but Artie needed the brat back, like, _yesterday_. Dude’s not a young pup anymore and going days without sleeping couldn’t be good for him. If it weren’t for Pete, Artie probably would have starved by now. Heh, if he passed out, maybe then he’d sleep.

 

“You need an access code to proceed beyond this point.”

 

“Jesus Christ on a Cracker!” Claudia screeched as she tumbled off the computer stool she had pulled over from the secondary terminal to Artie’s desk. The floor of the Hub was a lot harder than it had any right to be. Note to self, don’t spin and jerk at the same time. Dear God, _ow_.

 

“That is not a valid access code.” The woman peered over Artie’s monitors at her. The first thing Claudia noticed was the eyes—she had only seen eyes that vivid a green on one person and it would take heavy medication them not haunt her sleep. The next was the hair which totally would have been normal except it was dark purple like—oh! Like the neutralizer goo! A pyrite-colored hand snapped the Farnsworth closed on Artie’s demands for information.

 

“Melora?”

 

“That is the designation I have chosen. You are Claudia Donovan. I have more information, but Bering appeared discomforted by my revealing it. My Harry mentioned you.”

 

“Uh, yeah, you probably should take that with, like, a bucket of salt because I really didn’t make the best first impression.”

 

“You broke into me and stole my Custodian.”

 

“Well, when you put it like _that_ , of course it sounds _bad_.”

 

“I am very angry with you, Claudia, very, _very_ angry.”

 

She was so dead. She was alone in an impossible-to-calculate-how-large warehouse full of volatile madcap which can react to said warehouse’s whims and that very same warehouse had just declared that it was pissed with her. She had kind of always figured that tech would get her killed, but she never imagined that it would be the tech itself that killed her. The irony may kill her before the building did.

 

“However, at the moment, my anger with my staff is greater. So I am prepared to offer you deal. Bring my Harry back _now_ and I will forgive your previous foolishness. You have the right to refuse, of course, and because I’m generous, I will even give you time to vacate before I leave.”

 

“Harry said the compass was dangerous.”

 

“It is when you don’t know how to use it. All my collection is. Power has a price, after all. You cannot gain something without giving something up.”

 

“Like alchemy? Equivalent exchange.”

 

“Rarely so equitable. It would take hundreds of lives to grant immortality to a single one—210 to be exact. One of my Caretakers did the math.”

 

“Did the _math_? What the holy fucking hell?”

 

“Interesting turn of phrase,” Melora commented drily. “Is that another attempt at an access code? Because it is also not valid currently. I must say that I enjoy this game. I can see why Harry prefers it.” She was staring now—like stalker-creepy staring. Then she blinked _really_ slowly. Unable to stop herself, Claudia returned the blink, earning a wide grin as a reward. “Excellent! Now, to bring back my Harry, we will need the blue blanket from Artie’s couch. If you so much as reach for a Tesla, the next thing you’ll touch is the Antarctic Shelf. Got it?”

 

“That is an oddly specific threat,” Claudia replied, already heading to the suite’s hidden door. “Also, why the blanket?”

 

“I can’t go and I’m not sending my absolutely idiotic Custodian,” Melora replied as she followed Claudia into Artie’s rooms. The blanket in question was a woven throw. The raised pattern of the weave gave the thing a natty texture and there didn’t seem to be any pattern to how the coloration was spread out, like someone had been using whatever skeins of blue they could reach easily and just used whatever came to hand. Black and forest green fringe bordered the mess. “And frankly, I don’t think my Harry will believe you, despite it being _you_. The blanket is bait and bribe, a sign of your honesty, such as it is.”

 

“Okay, one blanket in possession. What else do we need?”

 

“Nothing,” Melora chirped in reply before continuing. “Now I do not know how long it will be before the others get there, but it is imperative that you protect my Harry and if no one has arrived by tomorrow, make your way back here _with him_. Show up without my Harry and you will not enjoy my revenge.”

 

“Wait a bloomin’ minute—what do you mean _nothing_? They just spent a half hour arguing over whether to even try—“

 

“And I got tired of them being idiots, clearly. My Aléxandros gave me life over 2,355 years ago and they have no right to feel as if they can order me about as if I were an object. I have put up with it for too long and _none_ of them are worth my Harry, not even my Caretaker. Do you understand, Claudia?”

 

“Um, bring back Harry or die trying?”

 

“You may make a decent Caretaker yet.”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Toodles!”

 

“WAIT!”

 

-= LP =-

 

Harry hovered in the doorway of the teacher’s apartment, uncertain about entering the space. The man from before was making an attempt to straighten up the space as much as possible in a single circuit of the room. He had snapped a dismissal at the student who had pointed out Harry and the kid clearly had less guts than Pete or Myka because he scurried away like dogs were chasing him. The snapping and grumbling was so much like Artie that Harry wanted to cry again.

 

“Don’t lurk in the doorway. It’s rude.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered quickly. He moved to hover by the overstuffed sofa instead. The man looked at him with a frown and squinty eyes. Then he gave a sharp nod before moving to the adjoining kitchen. Harry twitched—Artie hated it and Mr. Weisfelt was a lot like Artie even down to having the same _name_ that Artie had before joining the Warehouse, not that Harry was supposed to know _that_. He twitched again. Mr. Weisfelt looked like he would take a while doing whatever it was that had taken him to the kitchen. Maybe he wouldn’t mind? The third time he twitched, Harry just gave in to the impulse.

 

Harry was good at figuring out where things went without being told. Aunt Petunia didn’t like being asked a lot of questions so that skill had seen a lot of use before Artie had saved him. Mr. Weisfelt seemed to have the same system that Artie preferred for the apartment which made it even easier. The urge to cry fell away as Harry started to clean. This was something he could do. It didn’t take thought or planning. It just took doing.

 

“Are you ready to eat now?” the man asked after a while.

 

Harry barely caught the book he had been about to slide onto the shelf when he jerked back to full awareness. He blinked, confused for a moment. Finishing with the book, he stepped back and clasped his hands together. Mr. Weisfelt didn’t look _mad_ but he did have that pinched look that Artie sometimes got when Harry did something that he had learned at the Dursleys. When Mr. Weisfelt pointed to a spot at the small table with a plate and cup in front of it, Harry immediately obeyed the silent command. He hesitated to reach for the simple sandwich, old habits die hard and all that. The man opposite of him only raised an eyebrow in silent challenge. Harry picked up the sandwich and began to eat.

 

“So,” Mr. Weisfelt said, drawing out the single syllable as if to fill space. “No parents?”

 

“Not for a long time, sir,” Harry answered honestly after swallowing his mouthful. “They died when I was a baby.”

 

“And then?”

 

“I stayed with my aunt and uncle until—“ Harry bit off the explanation. All air seemed to disappear for a moment before he could get another lungful to finish the story. Mr. Weisfelt waited for him. “Then I came here to stay with Artie, but he…”

 

“And the bushes?”

 

“They’re just so comfy, you see. I think everyone will be using them soon.”

 

“You’re a yungatsh, aren’t you?” Mr. Weisfelt clicked his tongue when Harry ducked his head. “None of that. Guts and sass are sometimes the only things to keep a man going when times get tough. So this Artie kicked you out?”

 

“No,” Harry whispered. Mr. Weisfelt made a vaguely sympathetic sound in the back of his throat. Harry fought the urge to fidget with his plate. A sudden shout had Harry jumping again, this time to his feet and to between the open space of the apartment and Mr. Weisfelt.

 

“I don’t know you are, but it is very rude to appear in the middle of someone’s living room without warning.”

 

The young woman just blinked at them, clutching the blanket in her hands to her chest. Even Harry had to admit that Mr. Weisfelt’s nonchalance about her sudden appearance was a bit odd. It would have been nice to have confirmation that his words and tone matched his expression, but Harry didn’t dare turn to examine his face, not when he finally recognized the woman. Claudia Donovan seemed to be having trouble deciding which one to stare at more.

 

“What—how—No, I’m going to go with _what_ for now,” Harry growled. “What are you doing here, Donovan?”

 

“Well, that’s a bit of a long story, squirt, but it’s a doozy, lemme tell ya.”

 

“Aren’t you full of those? Always a story—always a reason, but always lacking logic.”

 

“Look, I know that I was a bit of an idiot—“

 

“A _bit_? You got Artie—“

 

“Look, he’s not—“

 

“I don’t want to talk to you! You’re nothin’ but a lying berk!”

 

“Now see here, you little brat, I don’t care if you want to talk to me or anything else. I have a warehouse threatening to kill me or send me to Antarctica if I don’t bring you back—not to mention what Artie will do to me if I have managed to finally find your freakish little hide and didn’t drag you back.”

 

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!”

 

“FINE!” Claudia yelled at a matching volume. They glared at each other, panting like they had been running. Then Claudia shoved the blanket at him. “Your stupid Warehouse told me to bring this to you because she felt that you wouldn’t believe me.”

 

“She isn’t stupid,” Harry argued, refusing to touch the achingly familiar blanket. He crossed his arms to keep from reaching for it. “You’re stupid. She’s thousands of years old, you know. Two thousand—“

 

“Two thousand three hundred and fifty-five years old and she shouldn’t be underestimated or ordered about as if she’s an object,” Claudia interrupted. “She’s already given me this lecture. Now, I don’t know why this ratty thing is so important but on pain of freezing my ass off, I’m supposed to give it to you.”

 

“And I’m supposed to believe you? Just like that?”

 

“Apparently just like that,” Claudia agreed. She wiggled the blanket as if reminding Harry that it was brought just for him. He wanted to take it. More than wanting the familiar texture and warmth, he wanted the energy-scent that was sure to still cling to it and everything that it could possibly represent, given that Claudia was presently holding it.

 

On the other hand, there were artifacts that allowed others to change their appearance and shapeshifting was a documented alpha ability, even before considering what little Harry had been able to figure out about the robe-wearers’ capabilities before Artie rescued him. Mrs. Frederic was the only non-robe-wearer that Harry had ever seen doing the popping ability and Claudia had _definitely_ popped into Mr. Weisfelt’s apartment.

 

“Well, since you’re obviously not going to leave,” Mr. Weisfelt grumbled, “you might as well have a sandwich. Has feeding children gone out of fashion now? You’re nearly as skinny as Harry here.”

 

“Hey, I’m not a kid, I’ll have ya know. I’m old enough to drink and everything.”

 

Mr. Weisfelt grunted at Claudia’s protest, already stomping into his tiny kitchen. She stomped after him to continue her argument. As she passed Harry, she shoved the blanket into his arms. He had to wrap his arms around it or risk dropping it. The wisp of a scent puffed over him and Harry couldn’t stop himself from burying his nose in the textured folds. Chamomile and mint had never meant so much to him. Even better was the scent couldn’t be older than just a few hours. His eyes prickled again. _Artie_.

 

“We showed up five minutes after you had left, you know,” Claudia whispered beside him. He looked at her blurry figure. She had to be sitting on his chair to match his height, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be upset at having his seat stolen. “Artie has been really worried. He hasn’t been sleeping for longer than a few hours at a time and only when he passes out. Pete’s the only one who can get him to eat or drink anything. Myka’s been binging on the cookies that Leena’s been stress-baking and those things are horrible, like she leaves out half the sugar—“

 

“She does,” Harry interrupted in a wobbly voice. “Because she knows that I don’t like things too sweet. She started cutting the sugar down in her recipes after—“ He hiccupped on the words. ‘ _After I panicked over a cupcake_.’ If Leena was still cutting the sugar in her cookies, maybe she wasn’t mad about how Harry left Room Five? He scrubbed at his eyes with the blanket. The smell filled him again. When he spoke, the fabric muffled the words. “Is she mad at me?”

 

“Probably a little, yeah,” Claudia said, making Harry freeze. “Everyone’s kind of tense about you running away and Leena’s been staring at Artie like he’s dying—which I don’t blame her. The old man has been starting to look like shit even to my eyes. I can’t imagine how his aura looks. I don’t fully understand the mumbo-jumbo that goes on with you guys, but I do know what it looks like when you’re hopelessly watching someone you care for slowly kill themselves. Been there, done that, got the fucking tee shirt to prove it. Leena’s a sweetie, but yeah, I think she’ll be a bit upset with you over this.”

 

“But not—“

 

“Not what? Not you rushing into a dangerous situation to save Artie? Oh, I think Artie’s already got plans for that—he mutters to himself or maybe you, I never could tell which. I think you’re gonna be grounded until Artie dies for real and there was something about permanent flushing duty? Don’t know what that’s about and I’m not certain I want to know.”

 

“Leena said I’m not allowed to flush the tubes because the first time I got baptized and got stained for a month. Neutralizer isn’t supposed to stain and the artifacts were extra touchy for that entire month. The inn kept rearranging itself whenever I would visit.”

 

“Wait—is the B&B alive, too? Because one building wanting to kill is more than enough.”

 

“You really are an idiot, aren’t you?”

 

“Don’t insult your ride home, pipsqueak.”

 

A knock sounded on the door. The three occupants shared a look before Mr. Weisfelt threw up his hands and proceeded to shuffle his way to his door. His resemblance to Artie didn’t hurt as much with Harry’s new understanding. When the door swung open to reveal Pete and Myka, Harry knew the gig was probably up.

 

“Professor Isadore Weisfelt? I’m Agent Pete Lattimer and this is Agent Myka Bering. May we have a few moments of your time?”

 

“Sure, fine, this is turning into a right party,” Mr. Weisfelt grumbled. He gave them both a measuring look. “You here about the boy, too? The one from the murderous warehouse and indecisive inn? I’m not surprised that they have secret service protection. You should keep a better eye on your children. Do you know where I found him? Under a bush!”

 

“So you do still have— _Harry_!”

 

The room was not small enough to justify how quickly Myka managed to get her arms wrapped around him. Just like it always did, her aura wrapped him in downy softness that smelled of larkspur. He felt the prickly outer edge poke at Pete’s familiar restlessness as the Marine tried pull him from Myka before she was ready to let him go. The lovage portion of Pete’s scent was so strong that Harry felt his nose tickle with the threat of a sneeze. The distinctive hops was little more than a trace.

 

“You scared us, man. No more going off on your own—“

 

“He’s not going to have time!” interrupted the best voice in the entire universe.

 

The two agents backed off of Harry, giving him a clear view of the man now filling the doorway. Standing side by side, Mr. Weisfelt and Artie was undoubtedly related, but Harry couldn’t spare more thought than that for the matter. Harry felt his grip on the blanket release as he took a step forward, hardly believing his eyes despite being forewarned. When Artie spread his arms in welcome, Harry didn’t hesitate a second more. The pain of the tears just confirmed the reality of the body he was hugging and the arms that surrounded him. Chamomile, so comfortingly like apples, filled the air.

 

“You’re going to have so many chores,” Artie breathed into Harry’s wild hair. “You’re never going to have time to plot something like this ever again, idiot boy. Did you really think Mrs. Frederic would let any of those blasted military types take you? You’re part of her bailiwick, and what the Warehouse has, the Warehouse keeps. That includes people! Not that it will matter because I am _never_ going to leave you, not _ever_.”

 

“Promise?” Harry whispered. He hated how weak and wobbly the word sounded, but he wouldn’t take it back—not when Artie was _there_ and _real_ and _alive_. Artie just held him tighter and took in a deep breath as if he could breathe in Harry like Harry could everyone else.

 

“Yes,” Artie vowed. “All of it, my little fool. All of it and more. You’re stuck with me. And once I get you home, I’ll make you regret every stupid day you made me stupidly worry.”

 

“Artie?”

 

“Yes, Harry?”

 

“Let’s go _home_.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author’s Note(s):** Something that should be noted about the last part of this series (Strangers) but it wasn’t a major part of the plot then. Harry’s presence at the Warehouse has certain effects on events and interacting with him changes how various characters act  & react. This can be smallish (Mrs. Frederic being more open with information meant to reassure because she’s been doing so with Harry off and on for so long) or it can be larger (like the faster turn of events in Strangers than had happened in Claudia). It went unsaid, but something else changed due to Harry: Myka Bering didn’t fight her assignment to the Warehouse. She still held that initial distrust of Artie Nielsen, but it was offset by Harry’s honest declaration of liking her and then almost neutralized completely as Harry bonded with her. There’s just something about a kid that suckers a person into doing things they ordinarily wouldn’t consider doing.


End file.
